


o refreshing shadows

by pashmina



Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: (or at least inspired), Gen, Gentleman Thief!Edmund, Lies of Locke Lamora AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-13 00:28:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7954999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pashmina/pseuds/pashmina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He never questions his actions, never considers the morality of it all. Because if he ever wondered what Aslan would think of him now, the Gentlemen Bastards would lose their best con artist. (Originally a pinch hit for NFE 2013 under the pseudonym tiabolt)</p>
            </blockquote>





	o refreshing shadows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [turkeyish](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=turkeyish).



> Title taken from La Fin de la Journee by Charles Baudelaire

The canals are beautiful, even with the buildings that almost seem to sag into the waterline.  
  
Curved gondolas, with masked party-goers, the scent of wine and retch, capes and rustling skirts, Edmund experienced it all carefully, all his sense assaulted by _her_ -Venice. The air, cloying and intoxicating, seemed to pull him into the crowded fray, his own simple black mask helping him blend in-covert in the simplest way imaginable. And, _oh_ how his fingers _itched_ at the sight of the rich mingling with the poor, diamonds glinting with an icy sharpness, his dark eyes drawn to their cut facets immediately.  
  
  
The Just King was now a Gentleman, and a Bastard, just in a way only thieves could be-stealing from those who had too much, and if he was feeling generous, giving to those who didn't have enough. It was nowhere near as noble as Robin Hood-Edmund did keep the best of his loot for himself, like the sword he had so carefully polished until it shone half as much as it once did, in another kingdom and another life. His skills, the nimbleness with which he once twirled two blades, were now applied more subtly, Edmund mused, as his digits slipped into the pocket of an overenthusiastic drunk, ostentatiously dressed with far too many jeweled rings. Relieving him of his unnecessary burden, he slipped away once more.  
  
  
This was not his target for the night.  
  
  
"Phantom," cooed a soft feminine voice, once he reached the alley in which his Motley Crew contact was to meet. Edmund's gaze helplessly traced the red curves of the woman's lips, as she smiled smugly, preening at the attention. No one went by name, for they all had lives in the day, but at night....the night was theirs, and they were the night's. And tonight, with people emptied into the street, empty mansions would provide them far more interesting entertainment than the joyous yells of the Venetians.  
  
  
"Cat," he acknowledged in hushed response as the two climbed up the clay bricks to the top of the flat of some middle class family-people they would never rob. It wasn't an attempt to be _good_ , it was simply that they targeted a more selected demographic. They have a perfect view of the Venetian skyline, so different from the stark lines of London. No, the Venetian skyline is languid, fluid, almost sensual with it's dips and bows. And sooner than he expected, both the "Phantom" and "Cat" have prowled across the rooftops to their desired location.  
  
  
Edmund looks over the edge, nose wrinkled in distaste at the sight of their landing-the trash will save their fall, but that doesn't mean he has to like it. Unfortunately, Cat seems to have no such qualms, since she takes one look, shrugs, steps back, then leaps forward, arms outstretched. He almost wants to pout at the grace with which she lands, quite similar to her moniker. With a resigned sigh, he jumps as well, landing with a soft grunt- perhaps not as graceful, but just as quiet, and by then Cat has already searched through the trash, pulling out a dark bag with their equipment. It matches the color of their clothing-though her outfit is more form fitting than his. He won't judge her for that however, because he knows that a flirty grin and swaying curves can be just as dangerous as the knives he keeps on his person.  
  
  
He stands watch while she begins picking the lock to the servant's entrance, dark eyes scanning for anything out of the ordinary. Other than a man asleep on a bench, his outline only visible due to the dim glow of the street lamp, he and his partner were the only ones on the street. A quiet click, and they let themselves inside the house. The crouched stance he uses as he silently finds his way to the safe reminds him far too much of another time-memories stored in muscle, of times sneaking into enemy castles trying to free a different type of treasure, something far more valuable.  
  
  
Edmund blinked hard, focusing on the present and his current task. His ear was pressed against the safe, and fingers spun the dial with a delicate touch. The subtle sound of gears setting in place was music to his ears and the door swung open with a low creak, as if it were rarely used. Sitting, dust covering its crystalline eyes, with a stately smile etched on it's dark gold features, was the Bastet. Just as his hands tightened around the figurine, he heard the unmistakable sound of a dagger leaving its sheath, and he whirled, reflexively coiling inwards.  
  
  
Where Cat had managed to hide that knife on her tight outfit, would remain an enigma.  
  
  
"Unfortunately, my darling," the dark haired woman said, grinning playfully, "The Panther no longer requires the Phantom. You've been removed from the Motley Crew."  
  
  
"Well perhaps you should tell that to the Phantom, then," was the glib reply and her eyes widened.  
  
  
Edmund rushed at her, pushing her hand upwards to loosen her grasp of the knife before twisting her arm around behind her back. Her cry of confusion was quickly muffled by his other arm, which still held the Bastet tightly in his hand. The smug grin on his face would have been out of place for the Phantom, but never had Edmund felt so much relief at removing a facade, a disguise.  
  
  
"Unfortunately, my dear," he hissed, mocking her flirtatious tone, "You should be more careful in recruitment. And more wary of your superiors." Cat continued to struggle has he led her outside, towards a bench and a man holding a bottle of wine, who bowed with faux graciousness at her. She recognized the beard, and the pin on his lapel immediately and narrowed her eyes. The Motley Crew and the Extraordinary Gentlemen had been rival guilds for years, but never had she imagined they would actually infiltrate her own crew's ranks.  
  
  
"Apologies my dear for the rough treatment," the man said politely, while Edmund tied her to the bench, before tucking his calling card- an ace of spades- into her belt. A reminder of the Gentlemen's victory. She remained stoic, unamused by the man's pretend affections, and Edmund couldn't help the twitch of his lips. The Cat and that particular Gentleman's quarrels were famous among the guilds.  
  
  
But it was not his job to pay much more attention to them. He only needed to make a delivery. As he handed the statuette to the elder Gentleman, for a moment its features seemed altered, more ferocious, and though he was loath to admit it, more like a jungle cat. Edmund frowned and took the bottle of wine and the envelope containing his payment, before turning away to leave.  
  
  
As the faint sounds of the rival thieves faded to a quiet, leaving only the gentle waves lapping against empty gondolas, the once-Just King brought the bottle to his lips and pulled out the cork with practiced ease. He savored the wine, the strong, sweet, cloying flavors and the slight haziness it brought to his vision, turning the cobbled streets of Venice to dirt paths at the Narnian Market. And if he brought his hand to his eyes, to wipe away tears when he passed the sombre, still statue of a winged lion, then the Gentleman Bastard was alone in the night to do so.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
**_FIN._ **  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Prompt:What I want:Edmund Pevensie  
> Prompt words/objects/quotes/whatever: "the Gentlemen Bastards crew, all masters of disguise, deception, and fine cuisine"


End file.
